


Purgatorial Road

by zgdtx



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-30
Updated: 2012-08-30
Packaged: 2017-11-13 04:21:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zgdtx/pseuds/zgdtx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world is on the cusp of twisting in on itself, and Stiles Stilinski gets lost in the middle of a massive revolutionary conflict. To survive, he joins a young rebel group, which is led by mysterious Derek Hale, who has an instant dislike for Stiles. Stiles decides that he might have been better off trying to wait out the war alone. Gaslamp Fantasy AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Purgatorial Road

**Author's Note:**

> AU. Gaslamp is sort of the fantasy version of Steampunk. I think. I'm not an expert. The universe itself is hard to classify at this point, since I haven't written the entire novel yet, but I imagine it's like late 19th Century early 20th Century America with a few anachronisms scattered throughout for fantasy flavor: and werewolves. Yes, there are werewolves. 
> 
> The style I use is toned down from my last fanfic which means less philosophy more coming of age and more romance. All seven season regulars, including Isaac, should have a developed love interest. Trying new things.
> 
> The setting is chaotic and there is no logic to the fantasy: I suppose you just "take it as it is". A big influence on the setting is the "Final Fantasy" series which more or less does what it wants. Updates are also rather chaotic since I don't have a set chapter length this time.
> 
> Questions, comments, and requests are always welcome.

**I. Nightfall**

Stiles Stilinski stepped out of the house and waved goodbye to his father. There was an empty leather bag slung over his left shoulder and a lantern on a handle hanging in his right hand.

         "I'll be back about an hour after sundown." Stiles said.

         "Careful, son. The instant you hear horses, blow out your lantern and touch your chin to the ground. They're scouring the villages for turns; we're lucky the fighting hasn't gotten to us, but who knows what the Sovereign God has in store for us this season." His father said.

         Stiles assured him he was going to be fine. Every sundown he and Scott bagged one of the night birds nesting for the next morning's breakfast; tonight would be the same deal, the same process, and tomorrow they would eat a good meal. Out of all the villagers in Beacon Hills, Scott and Stiles were the best at capturing birds for dinner, though they were the worst at everything else. In a world where swordsmanship was the golden standard of masculinity, Stiles felt as though he had the more underappreciated talent.

         Not that he much cared about marriage, he was nineteen going on twenty; he had no land to his name, and he had attended three years at the university at the next station's train stop. There was time to find himself a wife, and there was time to enjoy life as a young man. He worried that his country would collapse before his graduation, however. Everyone was worried the country would collapse due to the Rebellion, even the simple folk up in the hills.

         Beacon Hills was carved in a long stretch of hillsides leading up to a mountain range; they were traditionally craftsmen and lumbermen, though a factory had opened at the base of the northeastern hill, right by the river. It made all sorts of woodwork from lumber, and the town shipped the goods throughout the country by train or by river. Stiles's father was the Sheriff of the town, a good lawful man, who oversaw the coming and going businessmen with a strained eye: you had to be careful with the factories and the types they brought in.

         He walked through the town square to Scott's small house in apartment district where the factory workers stayed; Scott's mother worked in the factory, and so did Scott. His father had left them awhile ago. Scott's mother was a maid in some of the houses around town before she was a line worker. When the factory opened, the hours were better and the pay was more steady, so she left her job and applied for a position. Most of the town folk that applied were accepted, and the factory was still understaffed: people flocked from all over the country to work in these factories. Beacon Hills, the quiet town Stiles had grown up in, was suddenly noisy and cramped.

         Could he call it a town anymore? He wondered.

         Stiles knocked on the front door. A small, old woman, their landlady, answered the door.

         "Stilinski, you mouse. Are you here for Melissa's son?"

         "Yes, Mrs. Donahue. How are you? Still as beautiful as ever." Stiles smiled.

         "Don't bullshit me, Stilinski. You and your educated mouth...come in, go get him yourself." She said, ushering him inside the building. "You're lucky your father is such a well-off man, things he does for this city."

         That was the word being used now: city.

         "Do you not like educated men, Mrs. Donahue? I was under the impression that you liked me quite a lot." He said.

         "In the old continent, the educated never consorted with the lowly. Here, in this country, everyone mixes! It's anarchy. The Sovereign God would be appalled at such reckless behavior, knowledge passed down from the one class to the next, as if the classes didn't matter at all."

         "Some say they don't."

         "And some say I'll marry again! Now Stilinski, get out of my building soon, before I kick your educated ass out myself." She said before leaving him. Mrs. Donahue waddled away with her particular brand of whispered grumbles. Stiles found them endearing, but he knew she was probably cursing him under her breath. Most people cursed him. He had gone to university on a partial scholarship, which was an incredible thing for a boy in Beacon Hills.

         He raised his knuckle to the door. Before his skin hit the wood, the door opened. Scott was dressed and ready to leave. "Hey, Stiles. I heard you and Mrs. Donahue from the inside of the apartment. Let's go."

         "That old lady still hates me."

         "She hates everyone." Scott said. "But I can see that she really hates you."

         They walked far out down the southwestern steps until they reached town's edge. To get into Beacon proper, one had to pass through a valley bisected by a gated wall. Policemen were stationed around the gate to keep Rebels from seeking refuge in Beacon: partly what kept Beacon from the chaos of the times was its ambivalence to the Rebel cause. One of the men drew his sword, and asked them to stop.

         "It's nearly sundown. Are you out bagging birds again, Stilinski, McCall?"

         "Yeah. Yeah." Stiles said. "As usual, Greenberg."

         Greenberg was their age and one of the apprentice policemen serving under Stiles's father. No one liked Greenberg, and Stiles absolutely detested him.

         "You sure you shouldn't be practicing your swordplay? You know, do something that actually might make your father proud?"

         "Greenberg, don't..." Scott said.

         "Don't stick your head into conversations you wouldn't understand, bastard."

         Scott gritted his teeth.

         "Just let us through, Greenberg. We're not here to chit-chat."

         Greenberg withdrew his sword.

         "I suppose if you're _asking_ to be captured tonight. We've been hearing the sounds of horses all night. Haven't we, boys?"

         The other men nodded.

         "Horses or not, we'll be back an hour after sunset. My father knows." Stiles said.

         "Well, if the Sheriff knows, then I suppose we can let his little girl through."

         Stiles bit his lip. Greenberg was an ass, but he had been at the receiving end of that ass's fist more than once growing up in Beacon Hills. They were allowed through the gate. A hometown you loved for many reasons: most of those reasons revolved around your loved ones. A hometown you hated for many reasons: most of those reasons revolved around the Greenbergs of your memories. Stiles continued on awhile before breaking into conversation with Scott, making enough distance between themselves and Greenberg.

         "I swear Greenberg gets worse every day."

         "We've known him for years, Stiles." Scott said. "Though I thought he'd get better cause of the Sheriff. Your father's a good man."

         "Scott...my Father's a good man but Greenberg's Greenberg." Stiles replied. "People don't just change, you know. It's not magic."

         Scott yawned. Stiles could tell he was tired. An entire day at the factory would do that to a person. They walked over to the dirt road that led to the river, and past the river there would be these thin branched trees. These fat sort of birds they called river pigeons would sometimes nest in them. With the right hands you could just grab one if you know how to climb the tree and secure yourself to the skinny trunk. You needed a second, though, to keep you steady, or else you would definitely fall.

         "You don't have to go with me on these trips, Scott."

         "I want to." Scott said. "River pigeon is my favorite breakfast."

         "River pigeon is _everyone's_ favorite breakfast. Luckily, you know the best bagger in the business. Come on." Stiles led him past a small bridge that crossed the river. "Man, the guys at university don't believe me when I brag about the juiciest poultry in the country. They say 'Stilinski, you gnark..."

         Scott balanced on the railing of the river bridge. He breathed heavy. Stiles turned around and ran over. This was a common scene for a factory worker, particularly for Scott: weak lungs due to the soot they breathed around the work room. Scott began to cough.

         "Hey, hey, buddy. Are you alright?" Stiles said. He rubbed Scott's back, trying to alleviate the pressure. "You'll be fine. Sovereign God have mercy on us, you'll be fine."

         The coughing did not stop. It worsened.

         "Damn it." The sun was setting. Stiles took the lantern and lit the candle inside with a match. "We're losing light. And you're going to cough your lungs out."

            Stiles sat Scott down to try and calm his breathing. Maybe the episode would pass, or maybe his friend would die from lack of air. All he knew was that night had fallen, and they were sitting still on the river bridge. Stiles's mind was foggy. He could not think clearly enough to react to the sound of hooves hitting the dirt path, the sound of horses racing towards the lantern light in the distance, where the distant shadow of two young men could be seen.


End file.
